


Doubt Comes In

by dev_chieftain



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: Double-Amnesia, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on DA Kink Meme: Fenris gets injured, ending up with a nasty head trauma. Trauma nasty enough to force him to think that he is still a slave, still in Tevinter, and was apparently sold to a different magister (read: Hawke), and definitely not as a mere bodyguard, given the fact he wakes up in Hawke's embrace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doubt Comes In

Sounds, smells: his head throbbing, voices murmuring in a language he knew, but didn't know. Bottles shoved between his teeth, tipped back until the berries-and-ash taste of potions filled his mouth and ran out of his slack lips, joining trails of blood down his chin. Panic; tears on his face, hands forcing his mouth shut and pinching his nose until reflex made his throat leap, swallowing the strange, gritty stuff in his mouth so he could breathe.

A name, murmured endlessly, fearfully. Two syllables. He felt glass in the back of his head. Or was that his own skull? Everything itched, and where it didn't itch, it throbbed painfully. Slowly, slowly, flesh knit. Another bottle, half down his throat before his body recognized the taste and acted on the cue, swallowing every last drop.

He became suddenly aware of incredible pain, pain in his left leg, which lay broken beneath him, snapped at the thigh and twisted at the knee. Catching his breath in a sharp hiss, he tried to sit up and felt hands push him back down, blurry water-distorted sounds of voices, another bottle-- this time, whoever it was lifted his hands, curling them around the little glass vial, and helped him bring it up to his own lips. Other hands gently supported his head, firm at the back of his neck, strong, reassuring.

His body, already low on resources, ran out of the energy necessary to aid in his healing naturally. Spots danced in the wild blur that was his vision. Someone stroked his forehead soothingly as he began to slip into unconsciousness, reserves of energy drained so deep it felt hard to breathe. The glass shards jammed into the back of his head didn't change, but he could feel the muscle and bone of his leg crawling back to itself. Excruciating.

Faint words, still in that language he did not recognize, and yet understood. "--m to Anders, Hawke. We hav--" Nonsense words. He drifted, not fighting when hands lifted him, not fighting when he was cradled to a magister's chest (so close he could feel the magic seeping from the other man's skin), and thought with dread that he would surely be punished, for this.

He woke up, suddenly, gasping in shock. Soft sheets around them. (Wait, soft sheets?) Pain. Pain everywhere, mostly his head.

Arms around him, protective arms, unfamiliar arms--

A magister, he discovered when his eyes finally focused. (Reluctant.) A magister sleeping with _him_ cradled possessively in those warm arms. They were in a large, soft bed.

A bed?

A-- mansion? Not Danarius's mansion. He looked around wildly, not daring to remove himself from the magister's embrace, lest it displease him. No matter his confusion, he was in quite enough pain already for his tastes. No need to irritate a magister and earn more trouble. But how could he _be_ in this alien place? Had he not just yesterday served his punishment for disobedience as Danarius's writing desk?

The smell of the room was strong and enticing, the basil smell of a spice merchant's quarters, perhaps. He found that the more he breathed it in, the calmer he felt, as his mind ran through the possible catalysts to his current dilemma and he came to the conclusion that Danarius's punishment had not suited Hadriana's taste. It would not be the first time she had gone under their Master's nose, doing as she liked with Danarius's property when it suited her. He guessed he had fought her on the way over, as that explained the searing pain in his swollen left knee, the throbbing at the back of his head.

Evidently the magister in question had had no qualms with the condition of his received property, since (he ought to have noticed much, much sooner) they were lying here in the bed, naked together.

A shift in the even breathing he had found himself instantly attuned to warned him that the magister was awakening. He waited, keeping still, to see what the man would do with him. Perhaps Hadriana had lied about Fenris's function. Distasteful as...servicing a magister could be, it was better than being dead.

Or used for another of their spells.

The foul smell of lyrium clung close to the man's skin, and pressed here to his chest Fenris could not escape the stink of it, even with the pleasant taste of basil stronger in the air. The man's arms tightened about him subconsciously, and then he started awake, catching his breath almost-- fearfully?

Odd. Fenris watched with narrowed eyes, waiting for the telltale touch of fingers to his spine. Something about the concentration of the markings there always seemed to draw a magisters' attention.

A brush of fingertips very carefully over just his bare skin, that left him tingling, slightly, with the latent lyrium aura of any magister. Nothing more. The man was looking at him now, with an expression that he identified as concern. Deep concern; shifting, he lifted one hand, tracing the line of Fenris's jaw gently. He wore a hopeful half-smile, and murmured something incomprehensible.

"What?"

"Oos kvl yke jlehsrn? Hakh ztevp ound?"

Jerking away from the man's touch (even if it was _pleasant_ and made him feel calmer to be near this strange person), Fenris pulled free.

Unfamiliar language buzzed in his ears as the man's eyebrows jumped in surprise. He felt oddly vulnerable, naked under this strange man's sheets. Had some spell been cast on him while he slept to addle his mind? That might explain the aching in his head. (Perhaps Danarius had grown weary of bringing him back in line, of puppeting him around with blood magic. Perhaps this man was here to lower his guard, to break him.)

"Mejbmz?" True concern, and the magister slid to the opposite edge of the bed, leaping to his feet without a care in the world for his nakedness as he circled around and _knelt_ before Fenris, reaching forward as if to lay a hand on his forehead and frowning with worry. "Jahw hvwj. Foq'fi ieax lbrp, isbr xyhf's odmsl doesijq."

(Don't lower your guard don't lower your guard don't let him _touch you_ ) He couldn't help the fear that raced through him when any magister tried to touch his eyes and reflexively lunged forward, uneasy at the man's use of this strange foreign tongue, snapping his out-of-phase hand into the man's chest.

The magister froze, his expression not so much of fear as agony (betrayed), and dropped his hand.

"Not so powerful now, are we," Fenris hissed, twisting his hand just to watch this strange man writhe, his face contorted with the same agonies he'd been about to visit upon his temporary slave. It would have been sweet to kill this man, but at the same time, Fenris could not shake the memory of that tender moment when he'd first awakened, drowsy and oddly comfortable, being held by this man.

The man gasped, his eyes misted with pain, unfocused as Fenris squeezed. Just one word, piteously: "Mejbmz," Did it mean please? He couldn't say. And slowly, he fought the tension out of his body, remembering the horrible scream of his wounded knee and resting his full weight on his right foot as he stood, forcing the magister to rise beside him, giving him time but not too much, watching his belabored breathing with a sick satisfaction.

(But he is only a man, really.) Fenris felt himself slowly relaxing, studying the lines of fear and hurt in this stranger's face and concluding that, for whatever reason (lack of talent? timidity?), this particular magister would not hurt him if he were to release the man. He had no good reason to do so save his instincts, but at length he loosened his grip, exhausted from keeping his hand ghost-pale, and let go, slipping his hand free without taking a souvenir on the way out.

Choking for air, the magister staggered back away from him, coughing and clutching his chest. He drew great, heaving breaths, shuddering until protesting spasms from his body subsided.

Fenris moved to the door, backing away from the strange man, watching him closely. When he was sure he would not be followed, he bolted deeper into the mansion, expecting to find himself in midst of a vast palatial maze.

There were only stairs down into a large main room, where two dwarves were tinkering with enchanting magic. A serving slave noticed him as he exited the bedroom and smiled brightly to see him, saying something cheerful.

He had to assume it was meant to be cheerful, at any rate, for though he could see she was an elf and washing windows, her words were the same incomprehensible garble that the magister's had been: "Mejbmz! Foq'bi hwwui!"

Feeling a little as though the world had pulled itself from beneath his feet, he stepped back, eyeing her suspiciously. Perhaps his mind had been-- toyed with-- more than he'd thought. There was no time to linger. He dashed down the stairs without answering, grabbing a coat from a rack by the foyer door and shrugging into it quickly. He had run from his master before and was admittedly decent at it.

So he ran, out into unfamiliar city streets in a world that smelled nothing like Minrathous. Ash and burning corpses. Ash and grime. _Ash and berries. Potion. Cave._ Staggering against the nearest wall, he struggled to blend in with the crowd of elven servants, following the flow of foot traffic from these tiny high-class suburbs down into the lower parts of town, following the faint but alluring smell of the sea. The sea could mean freedom, if he played his cards right. Danarius need never know where Fenris had gotten to now.

When he found his way at last to the pier, he found his hopes dashed and cursed his misfortune to himself. It was no sea he knew; and no one in the port seemed to be speaking Arcanum, just that bizarre language the magister had used. It made his head ache. (Everything made his head ache. When he touched the back of his skull, his fingers sometimes came away bloody. People were avoiding him fearfully; his vicious expression probably did not hurt.

He felt curiously vulnerable, in only a carefully buttoned coat, with no slippers for his feet, with no weapon at his side. He had had better escape plans than this. It was stupid; he had foolishly let his fear at the magister's foreign tongue upset him and possibly gotten himself into much more trouble than he could handle on his own. Why he'd been wounded when he awoke troubled him, but his own recalcitrance was too obvious an answer.

Favoring his knee, he limped back from the docks in search of someplace cool and dark to sit. After who knew how long unconscious and a day wandering around this fortress of a town, he was beginning to feel light-headed. There was a strange familiarity to this place, but he did not think he liked it. No city smelling of burning bodies could be a good one, even if he were to be sold into privilege here. (And of course, he doubted any magister would ever be kind again to a slave that had so thoroughly humiliated them before leaving. If he returned, it would be to more brutal beatings than whatever had caused his skull to bleed.)

That had to be it. Danarius had sold him, probably for an inordinate amount of money to make up the loss in lyrium. He couldn't help a bitter smirk at the thought that he might have ruined even _one_ magister in the world with his ridiculously fortunate escape earlier in the day.

Someone slammed roughly into him as they passed, knocking him off-balance. He would have growled in irritation but the impact had only made his head throb worse. The man who'd bumped him glanced back, seemed to become nervous at the sight of his wounded head, and dashed off into the thicker crowd before Fenris could decide if he cared that the man had just tried to panhandle him. He had nothing to take; strange that anyone would mistake a slave for a free man, let alone assume that one could have any coin.

His head was spinning. He stumbled again, several steps before he tripped over a dwarf who grunted in that strange language and awkwardly tried to catch him.

Odd. He didn't fight the assistance, glad of it, and between the dwarf's support, his own attempts to keep his balance, and the support of a wall, he eventually was standing straight (enough), only wavering slightly as he blinked through the increasing fog. It didn't seem that the fog was real, so much as his eyes failing him. That was-- frightening. He looked down at the dwarf dazedly and saw something bizarre lurking in those clever, dark eyes.

Recognition.

"...who-- who are you?" he asked grudgingly, when he had catalogued the finely decorated shirt, the flamboyant way it was worn, with chest almost entirely bared. The hair there, the clean-shaven face, ponytail, clever, dark eyes. Those eyes. He could almost fall into them. He could see forever. (He stumbled again, teetering dangerously between the Void and reality.)

"Ps prea Anmeuui?" The dwarf's eyes narrowed, and in a very thick accent, he repeated himself carefully in the Mother tongue. "That is-- the Tongue of Gods, that Elf speaks?"

He blinked, once, twice, and nodded slowly. He was squinting to try not to get sucked down into unconsciousness, but certain sounds, smells, tastes were making his mind falter, just at that moment. Should be familiar, should be but wasn't. Why was it he felt like he knew this dwarf's name? No dwarves served in Danarius's mansion. "Where am I?" he asked at last, feeling the words as weak and faint as a dying breath. Not much time to get to shelter before his body shut down to sleep.

"Kirkwall," the dwarf answered, though he seemed surprised that Fenris didn't know. His voice was rich and confident, warm and pleasant. "The Elf un-remembers?"

"Kirkwall?" Dimly, he was aware of the dwarf's worried muttering in that strange, foreign language spoken here. Kirkwall was rumbling about in his mind. This word set fire to some memories he knew should have been privy to him. Vague memories: fighting bandits, slavers. Killing Hadriana, more a fantasy than a memory. Searching hands, being pushed against a wall. Kissing. More than that. _The magister._

He had been here, then. The magister knew him. And he had, indeed, been sold to the man for purposes beyond simply guarding.

Not a bad life, if that whisper of familiarity was true. One he probably could not go back to, after what he'd done. He wanted to laugh at himself. (Fading. Fading. Sleep. Time to sleep.)

The dwarf shook him, glaring urgently up into his eyes, snapping stubby fingers to try to draw his attention. "Blood comes from you," the dwarf enunciated carefully, struggling with obviously unfamiliar grammar and his own thick accent. His mouth handled the Mother tongue like a farmer handled goatshit. He was clearly not used to being denied his usual eloquence. (Eloquent? Yes, Varric had always been eloquent, in his bizarre, sensationalistic way.) "Health is to be restored."

He tried to make sense of that, but couldn't. Instead, he yielded to the dwarf's insistent tugging, murmuring, "Lead me." They were off as fast as Fenris's failing legs could take him, stumbling down into the sewers themselves and through a whole other city. He noted strange smells and unfriendly looks, and once or twice the dwarf had to leave him leaning against a wall, paying large sums of coin to hostile strangers who blocked their way.

They stopped just under the ring of a lit lantern's warm and out-of-place glow. Here, again, he was left leaning, while the dwarf went inside. He counted the pockmarks in the stone before his eyes slowly, trying to keep his breath steady. His knee was aflame, swollen and might never heal properly; his head felt oddly cold, and there was a sensation a little like glass. He lifted a hand, awkwardly testing for blood again. There it was: still fresh, a little, though the bleeding was sluggish now. Looking at it made him feel strangely sick.

Before he could really react, the doors burst open and an angry magister with gleaming blue eyes stormed out, grabbing him by the collar of the robe he'd stolen, lifting him up and slamming him roughly against the wall.

He coughed, and hung there limply, letting his head fall forward. Too much effort to keep it up. He was trembling with exhaustion. He hurt. He wanted to sleep; it didn't particularly matter to him if that sleep was to be permanent.

Recognition, again, but this time in the magister's terrifying eyes, as they faded to angry brown and horror showed on that strange, hollow face. Sallow, even; underfed. What kind of magister--? He was lowered, pinned to the wall so he could not sink to the floor, and strange hands lifted to touch his face, to reach within him with magic.

He opened his mouth to protest a second too late; and magic shot through him, magnified a hundred times over by the lyrium singing through his veins. For once, this was good: for once, the magic lancing through his body like a weapon was the blade of a healer's touch, pushing away injuries old and new alike, forcing his body well beyond its power, until he gasped for breath, until he blacked out, the very flame of life itself strained by the sudden shock. Only for a moment, for then he was draped over the magister bonelessly, his knee miraculously healed, his body exhausted.

Magister. Mage. The mage. Was yelling? Yelling and-- struggling with his weight. He tried to stand on his own, tired unto death. "...sorry," he breathed, not thinking if he meant to say it or not. He imagined he had a lot of things to apologize for, including his physical weakness, and whatever he'd done to that mage in Hightown--

How could he remember that it was 'Hightown' and not who the other man had been?

**Author's Note:**

> As an anon pointed out on the meme, Fenris is unable to understand his own name in the above. I promise there is a reason for that.
> 
> Also, the title is a reference to one of the final tracks of Hadestown, which is a sexy Folk Opera.


End file.
